


Wings to Fly

by astralis



Category: Dance Academy
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Truth or Dare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astralis/pseuds/astralis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abigail isn't the kind of person who cries on Leaving Day, except today, she is.</p><p>(She's also the kind of person who drinks wine and plays Truth or Dare with Kat and Tara, and the kind of person who's not good at keeping secrets, and the kind of person who can choose things that once she would never have considered.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for Trope Bingo (trope: truth or dare) but I'm pretty sure I'm not going to make the bingo so I'm posting this one anyway. It was written months ago, before the season three spoilers.

Abigail takes her time packing. She's got a suitcase open on her bed, a couple of bags and a box on the floor, and somehow that's meant to contain three years worth of her life. One of Kat's favourite hip-hop songs is playing through her laptop, the sound distorted and annoying, and half the first year girls are racing down up and down the hallway, shrieking, giggling, grabbing hold of each other, rolling on the floor.

Abigail's actually going to kind of miss this place.

Kind of. 

Kind of a lot.

Something goes thud in the hallway, and a first year yells in mock pain. Most days they'd be more careful, worried about twisting an ankle or dislocating a knee, but it's Leaving Day and they're all coming back next year, anticipating new leotards and second year privileges. 

“Zoe, for fuck's sake get off the floor -”

“Whoever borrowed my green bra, I want it back, seriously, was it Laura?”

“Can someone tell second year Jess her parents are downstairs?”

“Oh my God, okay, Hannah, I just got this text from Luke, right -”

Abigail considers her jewelery collection. She puts on the necklace Ethan had given her in Barcelona, tosses everything else into a plastic bag and throws a handful of hair ribbons, unused since last year, into the rubbish bin. Three years, over like they'd never been. No more fighting for the shower with the best water pressure, no more scrambling to finish homework before breakfast, no more lunches eaten on the dock in the sunshine, looking up at the Academy to think _I belong here_.

She bites her lip and straightens her back, and tosses shoes and boots into the cardboard box. She's Abigail Armstrong, ice queen, and she is not the sort of person who cries on Leaving Day no matter how it makes her feel.

Kat, whose packing had taken ten minutes and consisted of throwing everything she owned into suitcases, comes bounding back into the room. Kat's been bounding and bouncing and leaping everywhere the last couple of days, not because she's happy that it's the end of the year but because she's sad that she'll be coming back alone next year, and Abigail finds it incredibly annoying but can't bring herself to tell Kat to stop.

“What's happening out there, do you know?” Kat asks, dodging Abigail's boxes. “It's like a zoo.”

“Emily's yelling about her bra, Zoe and first year Jess are having a wrestling match on the floor, and I'm slowly going insane.”

“Huh. Well, anyway, Ben says his parents will be here in an hour, and do we all want to go have lunch before they get here.”

“It's ten thirty in the morning, Kat.”

“Ben says lunch.”

Abigail looks at her unfinished packing and considers the first years rioting in the hallway and the smell of the harbour on a summer day. _Last barre class, last night in the boarding house, last lunch at the cafe._ “All right. Lunch.”

*

Abigail isn't the kind of person who cries on Leaving Day, except today, she is. She cries when Tara, who's been sobbing for the last week, starts in on _remember when_ at lunch, and squeezes Tara's hand because Tara's talking about Sammy. She cries when Kat flings herself on Ben and doesn't let go, and when Ben and Christian do the manly hug thing while blinking a lot. She cries when Ben leaves and when Christian leaves, and when she retreats to her room to do the last of her packing.

She cries as Kat helps her carry her boxes downstairs, and she cries as she helps carry Tara's things, and she cries as she hands in her mailbox key and signs the form to say that she's turned in all Academy property. She might've thought she'd be all out of tears, but she knows from cold hard experience ( _Sammy_ ) that just when she thinks she's finished crying she can start all over again. 

She cries as they say goodbye to Miss Raine, Zach, the matrons, the students still hanging around the boarding house, and finds herself almost grateful for the tears because it means she can hide the fact that she still feels so bloody guilty about the choices she's made.

And she cries as she and Kat and Tara load bags and boxes and suitcases into the taxi van and pile into the back seat, and as the van pulls away from the boarding house Abigail can't see for the tears. Now it's official. 

_I used to be a ballerina._

*

Kat's parents are in London and flying back with Ethan next week for Christmas. Kat hadn't wanted to be alone, Abigail hadn't wanted to go home and Tara just didn't want anything to be over, so the Karamakovs' it is. It's like some kind of limbo between the Academy and not-the-Academy; Abigail thinks that maybe it would be better just to walk away but she's not sure she can bear to look her family in the eye, so she stays.

They have pizza for dinner, and salad which Abigail knows is for her benefit (not that it matters anymore) and chocolate icecream that's been in the freezer since last holidays. Tara keeps bursting into tears at intervals and needing one of them to console her, which is ridiculous because she'd signed her contract with the Company the week before and it's not like she's walking away from anything. The new and improved Abigail doesn't snap at Tara, which apparently means miracles do happen but makes her wonder if she can tolerate a week of this.

As they finish eating, Kat sets a bottle of wine and three glasses on the table in front of them. Tara sniffs and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand and eyes it warily.

“Hey, I'll break out the vodka if you want,” Kat says, going to rummage through the kitchen drawers, apparently looking for a corkscrew. “Besides, we're totally adults, right? Except for me, because I've got another year at freaking boarding school,” she adds, returning, corkscrew in hand. Abigail guesses the Karamakov wine cellar doesn't extend to screw-top bottles.

Tara shrugs and stops crying, however temporarily, and they relocate to the living room with the wine. Abigail sits cross-legged on the armchair, Tara takes one of the couches and Kat sits on the floor in front of her, letting Tara put dozens of tiny plaits into her hair. 

Abigail sips her wine and watches them. She's actually going to miss having these two around, can't quite picture what a world without them, without the Academy, without ballet will even look like.

She takes a gulp of wine and closes her eyes. She's cried enough today. She thinks about Melbourne, about living in her college with adults who probably don't roll round on the floor and yell about their underwear, about starring in shows and graduating with the letters BFA after her name, about being able to say _my boyfriend the choreographer_ and meeting Ethan for coffee or a drink after class.

“Abigail, are you even awake?” Kat asks.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were meditating or something,” Tara says, and giggles.

Abigail looks at Tara and rolls her eyes, without quite meaning it. “How much have you had to drink?”

Tara picks up her glass and inspects it. “Three quarters of a glass.”

“Well, this is going to be a fun night,” Abigail says. She tops up her own glass, and doesn't offer Tara any more.

“Sure it is.” Apparently bored of sitting still to let Tara play with her hair Kat gets up and puts on some music. “Let's do something.”

“Like what?” Abigail's quite happy where she is, now that she's had her first glass of wine. “Nothing strenuous.”

“Strenuous? Abigail, you're not seventy, and I'm not suggesting we go for a ten k run. I don't want to just sit around doing nothing all night.”

“Truth or dare, then,” Tara says.

Abigail hates truth or dare, but if she protests she'll be outvoted and sometimes it's easier to go along with Kat's plans or Tara's ideas than it is to argue and refuse to participate. “Fine.”

The first few rounds they all keep choosing the dare. Kat's kept busy running back and forth to the kitchen to find new and disgusting things to eat. Abigail suffers through flour mixed into vegemite, manages not to grimace on salt and sugar combined, and almost chokes on a spoonful of instant coffee powder. “This is a stupid game.”

Kat shrugs, and laughs. The first bottle of wine's empty, and Kat had picked up a second on one of her trips to the kitchen. Abigail's definitely had her share of it. Her head feels heavy and her stomach slightly sick, but at least she doesn't care about everything quite so much.

“Tara,” Kat says, firmly. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” Tara says. She looks a little pale. “I've definitely had enough to eat.”

“Ooh. Truth, okay. What's your favourite thing about Ben?”

“What do you mean?”

“Anything. Go on.”

“Okay.” Tara's cheeks turn from white to pink. “His smile. And...” she says, trailing off and taking a fairly determined looking drink of wine.

“And what?” Kat asks.

Tara giggles. “His butt. Abigail. Truth or dare.”

If she's honest, Abigail can't eat much more either, especially if she wants to keep the contents of her stomach where they are. “Truth.”

“What's going on with you and Ethan?”

Well, she should have seen that one coming. “Nothing,” she says, pulling herself together as best she can (definitely too much wine) and lying through her teeth.

Kat groans and a cushion comes flying through the air, narrowly missing Abigail's head. “Like hell. Secret Skype calls that end just when I walk in the room, commenting on every single one of each other's Facebook posts, oh, and the little fact that you've both decided to move to Melbourne next year. You are so busted, Abigail Armstrong. We figured it out ages ago.”

“If you know, then why'd you ask?” Abigail crosses her arms, unreasonably annoyed. It had been her secret in a world where no one had secrets, because they all lived in each other's pockets 24/7, something right that she could think about when everything else was going wrong.

“Because I want the gory details,” Tara says, giggling.

“I'm not sure I do,” Kat said. “Brother, remember?”

“Ex-boyfriend, remember?”

“Well, isn't this special? You asked. I answered. Kat. Truth or dare.”

Kat hesitates, and Abigail can see it. “I'm going to regret this. Truth.”

Abigail looks at Kat, and considers her options. A year or so ago, before life turned itself upside down and inside out she would have asked about Christian, just to see what reaction she got from both Kat and Tara. She could do it and it would be easy to feel the brief surge of triumph she'd thrived on for so long.

It's the guilt that comes afterwards that she's had enough of. 

“What scares you most about third year?” she asks instead.

“Getting to the end of the year and not knowing what to do next,” Kat says, almost without hesitation.

Abigail had expected something like _being the loser by herself._ “What do you mean?”

Kat's been sitting on the floor; now she lies down on her back. “Well, you know,” she says, after a minute. “I love ballet. I love dance. I mean, I figured that out. But I know what my life will be like if I go into the Company – or any company – and I don't know if I want that. But after the fuss I made about getting back into the Academy, how can I walk away?”

Abigail twists her fingers, and finds that her hands are sweaty. “I did,” she says. “I mean, star of first year and all that. Top in everything except hip hop. But I never chose ballet. I loved it. I loved being _good_ at it. I loved how it felt when everyone looked at me.” Abigail can't believe she's saying this out loud. Too much wine, too much emotion, not enough sleep. She'd told Ethan over Facebook chat rather than over Skype because she'd been afraid she'd break down and sob.

“You could have got into the Company,” Kat says. “Why didn't you audition? I never got that.”

Abigail could say _it's not my turn, it's yours_ and not answer the question, but they'd ask her on the next round and she'd feel like a dick. “When I did that show last year it just felt right. I didn't just love being the best. I loved the singing and the dancing and making this stupid character from a crappy little musical real. It wasn't like ballet. Technically, I'm a good ballerina. Better than a lot of people. But people like Tara will always be better than me, because they love it. And I don't. And I couldn't be that person just to make my mother happy.”

Tara's smiling, but Abigail's not sure she really gets it. All Tara's ever wanted is ballet, ballet and more ballet, and she loves it so much Abigail sometimes thinks she doesn't really understand how anyone could not want to live and breathe it for the rest of her life.

Kat however – Kat gets it. She rolls onto her side, props herself up on her elbow, and looks at Abigail. “So when did you decide not to try out for the Company?”

Abigail looks at her half-full wine glass, and realises she really doesn't want any more. “I think I figured it out when I was in Barcelona. Sammy had just died and I kept thinking about all the things he wouldn't ever get to do, and then I realised that there was a whole world full of things I wanted to do. But I didn't really decide not to audition until the week before. I just couldn't go through with it. I knew I was letting everyone down but I just felt sick every time I pictured myself getting into the Company. It wasn't even logic, it was just... I don't know.”

Neither Kat nor Tara says a word.

Abigail takes a deep breath. “So there you go,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “That's the story of how I decided to piss off my mother and throw my entire life away, so I could move to Melbourne and date a choreographer.”

Kat laughs. “So how pissed off _is_ your mother?”

“Very.” That's the worst part of all this – not that her mother's mad, but that her father and Paige are stuck in the middle and that all the sacrifices they made to put her through the Academy were worthless. Abigail swallows hard, feeling more nauseous. It's definitely the wine. 

“Just tell her about Ethan. Make sure you say Karamakov a few times, really loudly. That'll distract her.”

“Well, she does think your family is the royalty of the ballet world. She might decide not to disown me after all.”

“There you go then. Good plan. I knew my brother would come in useful for something.” Kat sits up, and looks around. “Well, Tara's asleep.”

“Asleep or passed out?” Abigail asks. Sure enough, the future prima ballerina of the Australian National Ballet is asleep with her mouth open.

“Possibly both. But she didn't have that much to drink.” Kat stands, and has to steady herself against the couch Tara's sleeping on. “I'll get her duvet. Do you want the other couch? I should have got your beds ready before we started drinking.”

Lying very still is starting to sound like a really good idea. Abigail's head feels foggy when she stands up and her stomach twists, rebelling against the wine or the 'dare' portion of the evening, but she follows Kat to where they'd dumped all their belongings and pulls out duvet, pillow, and, because the extra effort will probably be worth it, her toothbrush, face wash, and pajamas.

“Kat,” she says, impulsively, watching Kat detangle Tara's duvet from where she'd shoved it through the handles of one of her bags.

“Yeah?”

Abigail thinks of the smell of rosin in the Academy studios and the sound of voices in the common room on a rainy night. “You and Tara have to come to Melbourne next year.”

Kat retrieves the duvet, and straightens up. “Of course. Girls' weekend. And you have to come visit. And Ethan.”

It's awkward, standing in the Karamakovs' hallway with a pile of stuff in her arms. “I'll come see you and Tara,” Abigail says. She's not sure she can bear to go back to the Academy without belonging there. 

Maybe Kat gets it, maybe she doesn't. “I'll hold you to that, Abigail Armstrong. Come on. I think I'm going to sleep on the floor tonight. Beds are for wimps, right?”

And Abigail, no longer a ballerina, carries her things back to the living room thinking of everything that's yet to come. Melbourne, and a Bachelor of Fine Arts in musical theatre, seeing Ethan almost every day, and a whole world to play in. 

It'll be pretty damn awesome, once the goodbyes and endings stop hurting quite so much.


End file.
